


Queen of Darkness, Queen of Light

by pearl_o



Category: Hadestown (Musical)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Persephone, and you are no one's possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Darkness, Queen of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eudaimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/gifts).



You grow up in the shining white house on the top of the hill. Inside it's always cool and dark, polished wood and delicate furniture. Outside is the garden, your mother's pride and joy, which seems to be always blooming, a lush and verdant oasis. The gates are wrought iron, delicately shaped, tall enough to seem endless to a little girl. You can't see the city, or hear it, or smell it. It might as well not be there at all, for how little it affects you up here.

You do go down into the city sometimes, though, when your mother has errands to run. She dresses you in fluffy white dresses, like a doll. You follow her through the dirty streets, silent and two steps behind.

There are men and women everywhere: in bread lines, in the gutters, sitting on the sidewalks with signs in their hands. They all have the same look to them, exhausted and pinched, old before their time. Their expressions change when they look at your mother, though, turn into something bright and hopeful and loving. Lady Demeter, Lady Bountiful, queen of the noblesse oblige. She stops on her way and presses a coin into their shocked hands, waving away their gratitude with a smile before she walks away.

When you look back, their eyes still follow her, and you know that adoration will stay with them. Your mother will never give them another thought.

Back at home, there's a spot of mud on your skirt, and your mother tsks in disapproval. You stand on top of the ottoman, hands raised, while the maids scrub at you. You try to look out the window, but from this angle you can't see a thing.

* * *

There are noises from the house, loud and rough, and you hear your mother yell. An unfamiliar noise: your mother is always calm, always peaceful. But there is anger in her voice, a shrill unpleasantness. "What are you doing here? You're not welcome in this house."

You can hear the voice that responds, but not make out the words. It's not a voice you've ever come across before, but it feels like someone you've already known, like the rough melody of it is attuned to something deep within.

You close your eyes and shiver, in the warmth of the garden, and your hands squeeze tight around the flower you've picked, grasped in your hand.

When you open them again, there's a man before you, tall and dark with deep set eyes and an aura of authority. You blink at him, once, twice, and you open your mouth to say something, though you don't know what - and he stops you with a kiss, open-mouthed and hungry.

He thinks it's an abduction, but you go with him of your own free will.

* * *

Hadestown is everything your mother's realm was not. Dark, down here deep where the sun never touches. It's busy and bustling and full of people, and there is never a moment of calm. There's too much to do, always more work to be done. They flock around your husband, calling him _Boss_ , asking for the news, the plans, the latest updates. You wonder if you'll ever catch your breath.

The bed, carved out of thick oak, is heavy and strong, nothing of subtlety about it; it's the largest piece of furniture you've ever seen, filling the room and your thoughts until there's no room for anything else. You brush out your hair, one hundred strokes in front of the mirror, and wait for your husband to come to bed, afraid and thrilled and excited, nerves sparkling through your body.

He doesn't take you on the bed, though, after all. You lean forward, bracing your arms on the dresser, and he takes you from behind. His hands cup your breasts, and his mouth nips behind your hear in between his muttering love curses, torn from him with infinite reluctance. You gasp and twist in his arms, feeling something like wonder, and the ecstasy of it catches you by surprise. Your climax causes you to flutter around him, and you feel a fierce joy and satisfaction at the noises it causes him to make. You did that: you will do it again. Even your husband is not so strong, not untouchable. He's at your mercy.

* * *

One day down here is much like another. You settle into your new home quickly, and after a while, it feels like you've always been here. Your husband is made of power, just as surely as he's made of ashes and clay, and you don't know if that is the reason why you love him, or if you love him despite it.

The taste of power is addictive, though, as you soon find out, as you start to acquire it, teaspoon by teaspoon. It's sweet as honey, thick as blood, dark and delicious as anything you've ever tasted. You eat it up like the seeds of a pomegranate, but you're never satisfied.

Six months pass without a thought. One of your husband's servants has returned from a trip above, and as you dine he entertains you with the gossip of the city. Most of it is small, inconsequential, but then he mentions your mother.

The paint has faded on Lady Demeter's house, he tell you, and you lay down your fork. He tells you how she no longer leaves the property; no one has seen her in ages, only the maids occasionally as they go into town. The garden - the garden, her pride and joy - is overgrown and neglected, falling apart into a maze of brambles and thorns, a rainbow of brown and gray.

You go to your bedroom directly from dinner and begin to pack. Your husband follows you.

"What do you think you're doing?" he say, blazing with anger. When you don't answer, he grabs your wrist, pulling you away from your bags.

You look down at where his hand covers your skin, and then you raise your gaze back to meet his eyes.

"Husband," you say, slowly, "I think it is time we establish some ground rules."

* * *

You enter your mother's house, the door creaking behind you. Inside there's a fine layer of dust.

You find her in the parlor, stretched out on the couch. Her robe is stained and her hair is a rat's nest, but her beauty still shines through.

"Mother," you say softly, and she looks up at you in surprise.

"Persephone?" she says. "Is that really you?"

"It's me, Mother," you say, and you open your arms to her and let her cry.

* * *

When you're above ground you miss your husband. You miss your power, and your people, and your freedom. When you're in Hadestown, you miss the sun, and you worry about your mother.

Do you belong on that spotless shining hill, or down in the dirt and muck? Both, you think. Neither.

You are not just a daughter, not just a wife. You are your own woman, a queen: you will do as you choose, and as you must.


End file.
